[MH] (Caribbean by Night) Driving Miss Piggy

[Icelander]

Kit almost manages to drops the CamelBak and the pig gives a loud squeal as it is sprayed with water. Fussing with it for a while, Kit finally manages to turn his eyes forward again. “Won’t that violate OpSec?”

The two Night Riders in the front seats look at each other. “Ordinarily, yes, “Wojciechowski says. “But we’re not avoiding technological or HUMINT search methods. Only way our friends in the Esoteric Order of [Sphincters] could find us would be divination or dowsing.”

“And dem cultists ain’t got time for am tonight,” Juman adds. “Dey doing well to stay away from police manhunt themselves. [Excrement], they gone shot up cops and correctional officers every night for three nights. They always gotta be using up more of dem supplies, reserves, safehouses and am, so how much you figure they gots left? Nothing, that’s what, or they would have used am last night. Now they’re all spent, running scared and dem federal task force gonna wex them proppa. They gonna have helicopters and am federal massive on dem bam bam.”

Wojciechowski grins. “That’s our best guess, but even if there’s more of these people looking for us, it’s not all that simple to find us. I don’t know how much you know about thaumatology, boychik, but divining somebody’s location when you don’t even know how far away they are isn’t trivial. Doing it in daytime is harder and at night, it’s still not like Googling it.”

With his hands, the old Night Rider mimics a complicated dowsing gesture. “Even if you’re powerful magician, you still need good ritual space, good vibes around you and you need some luck also. You hope your target is staying put and you hope there’s good vibes around them for you. Worst thing for you is if they pass through areas where your magic won’t work well, like big cities with fancy new buildings and plenty of secular, educated people who know there is no such thing as magic. Or strong Threshold. Very hard to find someone behind strong Threshold.”
Riveted by this glimpse backstage into the occult world, Kit asks, “Threshold?”

Nodding his head gravely, Wojciechowski answers, “Threshold. You know how vampires in movies can’t enter homes without invitations? It’s like that, but not only vampires. It’s all supernatural beings and even thaumatological workings. Threshold [fornicate] up all powers and magic, make anyone not invited inside as powerful as kitten, if good Threshold. Homes are sanctuaries. Especially good homes, with happy families. Nobody really knows why, but it’s true. Doesn’t work in public places, but anywhere people call home, there’s usually Threshold.”
Wojciechowski turns in his seat and stares intently at Kit, “How long your family live in your house? Maybe grandparents live there first?”

Furrowing his brow, Kit muses, “I think it’s built over a century ago. Mom and dad bought it from the estate of mom’s grandparents back when they married, before I was born. I think I remember her saying that the first Muhlbach in Lufkin built it at the height of the lumber years back before the Depression.”
“You were happy child? Good parents? Norman Rockwell, apple pie, church and American flag?”
Smiling politely, Kit rejoins, “I thought you figured out my cliched small-town Americana background with your Sherlock scan already.”

Wojciechowski grins savagely. “Sherlock scan only for fun. Accuracy never better than 80%, maybe 90% when people really boring. This is important. Thresholds are strong if family is strong, people happy, safe, loyal, loving. Bad secrets ruin Thresholds, make them Bad Places instead. So, your family as wholesome as you look, boychik?”

Looking right into Wojciechowski’s cold shark eyes, Kit answers, “Alright, I don’t think we’re as cliched as you make us sound, but I wouldn’t trade my family or my home for anything. Yeah, we were happy. Still are, damn it.”

A significant look passes between the men in the front of the car. Juman says, “Then is na safer place than am house for abedeze. Not for to stay, just a quick cook-up, mebbe. Dem truck stop skite, am is gonna get tired bleddy quick.”

Shrugging, Wojciechowski adds, “We could eat anywhere, but hungry hungry hippo there is not wrong. If our esoteric friends do attempt divination working tonight, best chance of it not working is if we’re inside strong Threshold like your family home.”
With a frown, Kit wonders, “So, if they try it and fail, they get zero information?”

With a glance at his fellow Night Rider in the driver’s seat, Wojciechowski considers things and then says in a reassuring tone, “Not zero, perhaps, but probably not more than this state, maybe not even that if Threshold as strong as I suspect. Someone very good might get East Texas, pinewoods, not far from Big Thicket, something like that. It would take world-class thaumatology, with everything perfectly prepared for a powerful ritual, to get the right town from hundreds of miles away, and finding exact house in town would be like hitting hole in one three times in row. Thresholds are no joke, boychik, they’re something that can make even scariest magicians and supernatural beings pretty powerless.”

“Alright, but improbable is not impossible. Tomasz, would you risk your mother or other family on ‘improbable’?”
The older man laughs softly. “I do, boychik, every time I visit home. There’s no way to guarantee some awful demon spirit behind events we stopped or black magician mentor of some grimoire-gimp we killed isn’t tracking us at any given moment. At certain point, you elect to accept some level of risk or you decide to be crazy loner, like Zamal here, and then you end up with biting muzzle and stylish sleeveless coat in end.”

At Kit’s unconvinced stare, Wojciechowski sighs again and throws up his hands. “Ok, I get it. Accepting risk is easier when it’s just us. We don’t have to stop anywhere near your family. Zamal can eat anything, he just pretends to have palette because he thinks it will fool people into thinking he’s sophisticated.”

“Thank you,” Kit says quietly. “There are plenty of fast food places in Lufkin or we could push on an extra half hour and eat in Nacogdoches. There’s a Whataburger there, about a dozen Mexican places and pretty much anything else you can think of. I mean, neither Lufkin or Nacogdoches are any kind of metropolises, but there’s no lack of fast food. Or real restaurants, if that’s what you’re looking for. Cotton Patch Cafe does home-style cooking and it’s pretty good. Maybe not ‘billionaire personal chef good’, but maybe it’ll be a nice change.”

“Dis ‘home-style’ is just what am big chain restaurants use for trickeration, to get am lonely bachelor cash. It’s all cooked in industrial kitchens by dem illegal immigrants, anyway,” Juman says. “If we’re going to a restaurant, I want a bleddy steak. And if dis lenky illegitimate hasn’t forgotten how to drive, maybe we have a few drinks, banna.”

“Our bovine buddy is, again, crude and obnoxious, but not wrong, boychik. We are still in Texas; we should be able to find decent steaks. If you have local style of barbecue hereabouts, I’d like to try it. Greatest contribution of America to world culture, almost makes up for atomic bombs and institutionalized racism, is good, cheap meat and spicy barbecue sauce. In honor of other animal in automobile, maybe we should have barbecued pork, but sometimes I think all Texans are crypto-Jews. Suggest maybe grilling pork instead of beef and reaction is almost same as in Haredi household.”

[Kalzazz]

Dickey's Barbecue is a popular chain and conveniently found in Nacogdoches

Whataburger is absolutely everywhere. If you want a more interesting fast food restaurant Lufkin is blessed by having one of the rare Wienerschnitzels

[Icelander]

Originally Posted by Kalzazz

Dickey's Barbecue is a popular chain and conveniently found in Nacogdoches

That actually sounds perfect.

I'm assuming that there are no meaningful regional differences in barbecue styles from Houston, a mere two hours south?

Originally Posted by Kalzazz

Whataburger is absolutely everywhere.

Well, there's no In-N-Out Burger there and no one with taste buds is going to recommend the likes of McDonald's, Burger King, Dairy Queen, Sonic or Subway.

Originally Posted by Kalzazz

If you want a more interesting fast food restaurant Lufkin is blessed by having one of the rare Wienerschnitzels

I would describe that as 'interesting'. A chain hot dog* restaurant named for a foodstuff they don't even serve.

*I don't even like Icelandic hot dogs, which at least have the advantage of childhood familiarity. As for the American version, bleurgh. Wojciechowski, obviously, hates hot dogs as well as anything he perceives as inferior substitutes for proper sausages. Juman likes American hot dogs, especially chili dogs. As for Kit... as a kid, he liked hot dogs grilled at picnics and backyard barbecues, but he doesn't really eat them anymore.

[Icelander]

“You hush your mouth,” Kit says with a smile on his face. “It’s true that when we say ‘barbecue’, we generally mean beef, but we hold our own when it comes to ribs, at least around here we do.” He looks at the pig next to him and covers its ears. “My brother Josh makes mean pork spareribs. Rubs them himself, secret mop sauce and everything. I swear, there’s nothing in the world my kid brother is serious about, except his secret rib sauce. Started messing with Grandpa Walker’s recipe when he was just a snotty tween and has been demanding everyone call him ‘pitmaster’ since then.”
Juman snorts. “Yeah, yeah, but dis baiya ain’t gonna cook am for us tonight. Where’s the best steakhouse up ahead?”

“Uh, The Republic Steakhouse is closed Sundays, but we could just drop by Dickey’s Barbecue Pit. It’s a chain restaurant, not really local style barbecue, but it’s not bad,” says Kit.
Wojciechowski clucks. “We’ve got plenty of those within driving distance down in Galveston.”

“Yeah, but I like am,” Juman says. “You can have dem Polish sausages.”
“Listen, you sweat-soaked tub of lard, if I want kielbasa, I’ll have real kielbasa.” Wojciechowski grins. “Polish sausage isn’t proper name of foodstuff anyway; Polish sausage is nine inches of romance, ecstasy and delight. Just ask your mom.” He reaches a hand back to tickle the pig. “Besides, I don’t want sausage. I want succulent, fall-off-the-bone, sweet and spicy, finest pork ribs made with local pride and zest.”
“Got dem ribs at Dickey’s.”

With a sign, Wojciechowski shares a long-suffering look with Kit. “I will be bigger man and not engage. You have made executive decision, Zamal. Congratulations. We are going to Dickey’s Barbecue Pit, for ten thousandth time. That feeling of hollow triumph you are experiencing is loneliness of command, you bottom-feeding Philistine.”
Rumbling with laughter, Juman replies, “Look here, sport, am brisket’s gonna be even better flavored with dem tears of passive-aggressive self-pity.”

---

After passing through Lufkin, the Cadillac cruises onward through the woodlands of the Angelina National Forest. Darkness transforms the familiar terrain into a shadowy realm of bare branches and crooked trees, like stick-figure trolls stalking the highway. This far north, they’ve escaped the drizzle around the Houston area, but it still figures to be chilly outside and Kit is happy that the central heating of the old Caddy still works. Warm and comfy, the pig has dozed most of the way, less trouble than his kid sister Ashley used to be on family road trips in the pre-smart phone days.

“Guys,” Kit wonders, “What are we going to do about the pig while we eat?”
Juman grins. “Dem piknees eat for free on Sundays at Dickey’s.”
“I can see resemblance, Zamal, but we’re not pretending the pig is your child,” says Wojciechowski. “Besides, we’re not going to run out of cash any time soon. If you fail to have forethought to pick rick parents in life; selecting right billionaire patron is almost as good.”
“I figure we tell dem she’s your daughter, pink and squealing like you lenky self,” replies Juman. “Ain’t am your new son-in-law in the back there?”
“Look, lunk, if I had animal by-blow, it would be magnificent predator, like she-wolf or falcon. And my little princess wouldn’t marry frog.”

The two Night Riders fall silent, look at one another, look back at Kit and the pink, dozing pig, and then start laughing uproariously. “Miss Piggy, Pig in Wig, and Kermit, Coronado commando frogman,” Wojciechowski wheezes.

“Kermit is a nice Southern boy made good, responsible, hard-working and fiercely loyal to his friends,” Kit notes. “He comes from humble beginnings and made his own way. He earned a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and became the first amphibian to address the Oxford Union. Success never spoils him, and he ultimately makes music because he likes it, not for wealth or fame. He never judges anyone for their race, color or creed and he’s the perfect leader, because he doesn’t want the job. It’s not easy being green, but Kermit manages with grace and honor. There’s worse role models.”

“Ah,” snaps Wojciechowski, “But what about way he strings Miss Piggy along? She is crazy about him, but he, he doesn’t care!” Scowling, he adds, “That frog is toying with her emotions.”

Kit pats the side of the pig next to him. “Kermit can’t help it if they want different things. He’s her friend and he doesn’t want to hurt her, but, hell, she makes it real hard to have any kind of normal relationship. With her problems, no partner can just make her happy or fix her, she needs to work on herself with a professional. I think they’re better off as friends.”

Looking thoughtful, Wojciechowski replies, “Maybe. But I never liked that Denise pig.”
“Oh, absolutely,” says Kit, “He rushed into that relationship. No, Bernadette Peters is who he had chemistry with.”
“Yes! Remember Lulu, in ‘Pennies from Heaven’?” Wojciechowski says excitedly.
Laughing, Kit wonders, “You liked that movie?”

“Liked, boychik? I can dance like Christopher Walken in it.” Wojciechowski makes a half-hearted attempt to part his abundant gray hair in the middle. “They say pimpin’ ain’t easy, but he made it look stylish as [fornication], didn’t he?”
“Tom is a petty, amoral abuser, dude.”
Snapping his fingers, Wojciechowski dances in his seat. “Ah, but flash [illegitimate] could dance! I love good bad man.”

With a doleful expression, Juman turns off the highway, into a parking lot. “If you two chi chis gonna keep talking about musicals, I is gonna have to tell dem at Dickey’s I got three daughters to feed.”

Covering the pig’s ears again, Kit says, “I’m sorry, Miss Piggy. He’s just ignorant. He doesn’t mean to conflate gender identity, sexuality and artistic tastes, he just doesn’t realize it’s almost 2019.”

Wojciechowski shakes his head. “Zamal knows what year it is. He just doesn’t care. He likes Fox News, Ted Cruz and building wall on border. In American terms, he is ‘Basket of deplorables’, except in his case, they need barrel. All Guyanese are rude and prejudiced. It’s in their blood.”
“Dude, that’s just racist.”

Triumphantly, Wojciechowski points a finger a Kit. “So! When I say it, I’m racist, but he’s just ‘ignorant’ when he says something homophobic? You’ve got double standard, boychik, based on skin color. You are true racist!”
At the look on Kit’s face, both the older men let out guffaws of laughter, lasting them until they are parked next to a window at the Dickey’s Barbecue Pit.

Juman states flatly, “Anyway, you chi chis is both wrong. ‘Pennies from Heaven’, am is rass. Bernadette Peters is way best in ‘Pink Cadillac’.”

Both Kit and Wojciechowski sputter in shocked disagreement, enumerating the uncountable reasons that movie is the absolute worst Clint Eastwood movie and only someone guilty of crimes against humanity could enjoy it. While they do, Wojciechowski and Juman exchange a few glances, which end up with Wojciechowski shrugging and taking a messenger bag along. Juman checks a small lock box situated between the seats before leaves.

As he stands up, Juman grunts with effort. “Ain’t no such ting as a bad Clint Eastwood movie, banna. You gonna eat or you gonna stay in my cyar with your sweet homan?”

Uncertain, Kit looks at Wojciechowski and Juman, then at the pig. “Well, I’d love to stretch a bit and have a solid meal, but how can I just leave her in here?” He motions at the animal. “She might, I don’t know, go crazy in here alone. Or whatever else pigs do in cars that they are not supposed to. Or someone might notice her.”

“You think pig is less conspicuous if you with it? We’ll go in first, order and you can join us in while. Just take it to bathroom, change it, wash it and put it back in car.” Wojciechowski pulls something that looks like a white ring attached to a silver medallion from his pocket. “Then give it this.”
“What the hell is this?”

Demonstrating by dangling it in front of the pig, Wojciechowski says, “Ivory coral. Early pacifier, 17th century, Lancashire. Enchanted to have power to fascinate simple mind, we used it for child born with terrible curse. Nasty business, but coral should work for pig as well as cursed child.”

Kit widens his eyes and takes the silver part from the older Night Rider, dangling the ivory ring in front of the pig, causing its eyes to follow it intently. “Whoa. We got a magic pacifier?”
“Join for sexy pig in wig action. Stay for cool toys. Welcome to Night Riders, boychik.”

[johndallman]

Originally Posted by Icelander

“Ivory coral. Early pacifier, 17th century, Lancashire. Enchanted to have power to fascinate simple mind, we used it for child born with terrible curse. . . ”

I was wondering what they were going to use to keep Miss Piggy calm. I'm kind of surprised she hasn't got bored thus far; pigs are fairly smart.

[Icelander]

Originally Posted by johndallman

I was wondering what they were going to use to keep Miss Piggy calm. I'm kind of surprised she hasn't got bored thus far; pigs are fairly smart.

Ah, you are noticing the after-effects of 'Nonc' Morel's herbal tranquilizers!

Consider this, would you tattoo a fully-awake pig?

Of course not. Which is why, in his druidic wisdom, 'Nonc' Morel sent to Penemue an enchanted apple that was fed to 'Grísella'* and put her into a peaceful slumber for the next eight hours (because the apple was a herbal elixir of Succour). Unfortunately, being the kind of druid he is, the apple was also soaked in almost 200 proof alcohol and imbued with the kind of herbs that ensure only the most vivid dreams.**

'Grísella' has been more or less unconscious, despite some mewling, squealing and twisting, during the entire trip. That, however, won't last.

*The real name of 'Gwen Delvano' is Gisella Esther Cortèz Rojas and, in Icelandic, 'piglet' is 'grís' (pronounced like 'grease'). Thus, Teddy Smith's player, OOC, dubbed our pulchritudinous porker 'Grísella'.
**Not because 'Nonc' Morel's player was playing a prank on anyone, but because that's genuinely how he administers Succour Elixirs, to NPCs, other PCs and himself alike.

[Icelander]

Taking a pig in a wig into a restaurant bathroom, even a fast food barbecue joint, seemed unnecessarily obvious. Fortunately, this Dickey’s Barbecue Pit was located next to a Shell gas station and there was an almost empty area of the lot where Kit can find a water hose. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to use it, but figured that it must be used to rinse most of the dirt from trucks and the like, so even if someone sees him at it, he’ll probably be able to talk his way out of it. Well, depending on the pig, but probably best to try to keep that under wraps if possible.

Changing and cleaning the pig proved easier than Kit had feared, largely because the NASA-inspired ‘Wellness Briefs’ that the pig was wearing were so much more effective than the 20th century diapers he was used to from changing his sister in the late 90s. The pig was still drowsy, which made it nicely pliant and easy to work with, albeit necessary for Kit to heft it around like a very heavy piece of luggage.

After cleaning up thoroughly, Kit deposits his porcine charge in the back seat of the Cadillac and the soiled ‘Wellness Briefs’ in the trash, along with the sanitary napkins Kit used to ensure a fresh, sweet-smelling pig. Fortunately, the porker still seems inclined to fall asleep whenever she is left alone, so Kit simply leaves her with the enchanted English proto-pacifier and locks the car.

Kit was feeling stiff, achy and restless, so he jogs a circle around the parking lot, finishing up with a sprint around back and some stretches. Once he feels that no one is watching him, he takes off his vest, shirt and t-shirt, revealing that all over his toned stomach, up his muscular right side and around the shoulder and neck area, there is recently healed scar tissue that looks like he was attacked by some sort of animal. It doesn’t seem to impede his movements and seems to have healed very well, leaving only minor cosmetic blemishes, but a few months ago, these must have been pretty severe lacerations.

Dropping to the ground, Kit did a hundred pushups followed by a hundred crunches, in an unreasonably short amount of time. Then he did a variety of plank exercises, some of which incorporate jacks and crunches, ending with twenty full power standing jumping jacks. Breathing hard and sweating freely, Kit then used the hose to wash off after his abbreviated ten-minute workout, jogged to the car to fetch a towel and dressed again after toweling off. His long dark hair still dripping water, Kit made for the restaurant.

---

Dickey’s Barbecue Pit was about half full. The early dinner crowd was mostly gone, but there were a fair number of Sunday diners lingering over their meals while two waitresses, a pretty young brunette playing with her phone and an older blonde with a perm flirting with the counter man, alternated drink orders with bored loitering. Plaintive country lyrics rung out – ‘Who knows where this road is supposed to lead; We got nothing but time…’

Ordering proved fast and the food was ready immediately, so neither older man even contemplates waiting for Kit. They took their seats at a table where they could see Juman’s car out the window and Wojciechowski was already halfway through a plate of ribs while Juman had almost finished a brisket.

The two middle-aged Night Riders were arguing loudly about the progress of the ratification process of a potential Equal Opportunity to Govern Amendment to the Constitution and what it would mean for future elections. Juman seemed to believe that the law doesn’t or shouldn’t prohibit a foreign-born candidate for President, which he thought should benefit Senator Ted Cruz, seeking the Republican nomination for the Presidential race in 2019, but Wojciechowski did not agree.

“No establishment Republican will run against incumbent President. Not even this one. And why should he? Cruz is young, he can wait for his chance. No, I am telling you, Schwarzenegger is behind it, he always has been. He is going to run this time; as independent if he has to. He can’t wait for 2024 or later, not like Cruz.”
“Bah,” says Juman. “No independent’s ever gonna win am.”

“You think Schwarzenegger hasn’t thought of that?” Wojciechowski tapped the side of his nose. “Governator is cunning like man-eating tiger.“ Raising a finger while musing pedantically. “Core bases will vote Party tickets; even if selection is between Hitler or Stalin. But who will Democrats find to compete? Beto O’Rourke won’t get nomination, Hillary won’t run, Bernie’s too old and my girl Ocasio-Cortez is too young. Or just right age, depending,” he adds with a leer. “Kamala Harris and Julián Castro have no real shot, no more than you do, you slobbering oaf.”

Wojciechowski looked up, grimly, punctuating his words with a stabbing finger. “So! It will be Elizabeth Warren or Joe Biden. And what are they? Lawyers! Politicians! Washington insiders; to average American. Do they have star power? Name recognition? Election is not professional hiring process; it is emotional popularity contest. And don’t be fooled by media echo chamber into thinking that any Democrat who can wipe their own ass has a good chance when they get nomination. Loud minority absolutely hating incumbent won’t get asses to voting booths, not while economy is fine.”
Juman shrugged. “Don’t that just mean Trump wins am again?”

Pensive, Wojciechowski replied, “Maybe. Or maybe third-party conservative candidate would cost incumbent election, like Bush Senior. I don’t know; I’ve got feeling there are things in motion behind scenes. Trump has beaten Republican Party machinery into obedience, faster than I would have believed. Has he won loyalty of enough ordinary conservative voters? Election is emotional, but it is also race to center. Schwarzenegger is life-long Republican, but within Party, he is moderate, even left of center. He has cross-over appeal, more than any candidate in very long time. And carrying California would be huge deal. How many ordinary conservatives would vote for third option, if they thought he had chance?”

“Me na gonna vote for am,” Juman said. “Arnold, him only tough on crime in movies. I tink he take am guns if he’s ever President. He na proppa Republican and dem NRA na gonna endorse him nohow.”
“My fine fat friend, as usual, you have managed to accidentally collide with the exact point, narrowly avoiding knocking yourself out on it,” Wojciechowski says with a grin. “There’s absolutely no chance that Schwarzenegger or anyone else can run a successful third-party campaign with the NRA lobby united against him. No matter how little other candidates excite voters.”

Making a pistol with the fingers of one hand, Wojciechowski mimed shooting Juman. “So! Mark my words, these will be first signs. Before end of January, you will see Schwarzenegger making nice with all your favorite arms dealers and industrialists. Not too nice, mind you, he still has to appeal to center vote more than incumbent or eventual Democratic candidate, but as long as he doesn’t shoot anyone photogenic, that should not be hard.”
“You think dem Governator gonna be next American President?”

Wojciechowski shook his head. “I said he was going to run, not that he would necessarily win. In any reasonable world, smart money is still with incumbent. And failing that, with other party in two party system.” With a grin. “Of course, Schwarzenegger knows damn well we are not in reasonable world. Vegas smart money would not be accounting for his awesome warlock powers.”

Rolling his eyes, Juman blew a raspberry. “Not dis kaka again. In forty years, dude can’t learn English proppa! How’s he gonna be speaking am Koine Greek or am backwards Latin?”
“Oh, come off it!” Wojciechowski flicks Juman’s ear. “You of all people don’t need to be told about obfuscating stupidity when it comes to butchering English language!”

BBQ sauce framing a grin as wide as the Man in the Moon, Juman retorted, “Okay, sport. Mebbe he can talk proppa if he wants. He’s still from California, ain’t he? You think dem Hollywood people are gonna be performing rituals and am in Bel Air?”
“Well, it’s modern, urban, well-lit and fairly safe,” Wojciechowski says, “But don’t pretend LA is full of skeptical rationalists. There are ritual places somewhere around, there always are everywhere. You just need to know where to look.”
“You mad rass and looking up your own battie, sport. Worry about dem spooks in Homeland, dem Murciélagos in Venezuela or that little magga waitress listening in us, not dem mad schemes of Arnold the warlock.”

---

“Kit! Kit Walker!” yelled the pretty brunette waitress in an excited voice. “Ashley didn’t say you were on leave!”
Stopping in his tracks and turning to look, Kit stared at her for a few breaths before recognizing her. “Little Lexi? You work here now?”

Like a slender hurricane, ‘Little Lexi’, whose perfectly ordinary height hardly justified the epithet, rushed to embrace Kit. As he tried to take her hand instead, the embrace was awkward, but not enough to silence the irrepressible Lexi. “For my sins, just part-time while I’m in nursing school. Goooo Lumberjacks!”

[Icelander]

My players noted that they wanted more background on the events that led to Team 'Driving Miss Piggy' being dispatched, so here is the first of two Intermissio posts, set during the events of Episode 2 and 3. I might continue the regular tale before adding the second Intermissio, it depends.
---

Deputy US Marshal Natalie Garza parks her car on the lot by Pier C, before walking toward the superyacht Penemue. Even in through the shivery wintery fog, the elegant, sleek lines of the yacht amaze her. Galveston locals proudly claim that BOI (‘born on the island’) billionaire J.R. Kessler’s yacht is the fastest superyacht in the world. That can’t really be true, as the Penemue was built in the 1960s and surely some Arab prince has a faster modern yacht by now, but it certainly looks the part. ‘A 20th century pirate ship for a 20th century pirate king,’ Garza thinks.

Texas law enforcement has a complicated relationship with Galveston’s prodigal son. On one hand, J.R. Kessler has donated to every law enforcement charity and public-private partnership that benefited cops in this part of Texas for almost half a century. On the other, local legends link his name to the Maceo brothers of Galveston’s racy past and insist that he earned his first million running a casino in Havana during the height of the Mafia years there. And that’s only the most probable of the legends told of Kessler’s outlaw early years.

Personally, Garza likes the old buccaneer. Not that she’s met him personally, even though this will be her second visit to his yacht, but every islander seems to have a story about him and nearly all of them make him seem wonderfully eccentric and irresistibly charming. As a larger than life local character, Kessler seems like a throwback to the romantic frontier Texas Garza wished she could have seen. Of course, as the actual historical Texas of the Wild West probably would have made it hard for her to carry a badge and gun, maybe she’s pining for a Hollywood version of history.
‘Hell, if I can’t be Rooster Cogburn, maybe Marshal Anita Blake isn’t so bad.’

Trying to contain a goofy grin as she thinks of tough-guy Lucien Lacoste in the guise of one of Anita Blake’s effete paranormal paramours, Garza checks herself. ‘Do I really believe in spooks, curses, monsters and monster hunters?’ The events aboard the Aqueronte didn’t seem altogether real now that it was daylight, but they’d been real enough for investigators to seal off the ship as a crime scene. ‘And is it really any better to imagine that a young girl had ripped up the stomach of another teenager and eaten her innards for perfectly normal, human reasons than to believe she was possessed by a dark spirit?’

Touching the butt of her Glock 22 in reassurance and making sure her badge is clearly visible, Garza notes that the security around the Penemue is, if anything, even more extensive today than the day before. Not only professional-looking suit-wearing security personnel checking people as they come aboard, but also camouflaged counter-snipers in prepared positions, like the Secret Service uses. Kessler is probably safer than most heads of state.

As part of the ongoing investigation into the violent incidents of the last few days, Garza heard that the FBI is doing background checks on everyone who works aboard the Penemue, and there’s at least twenty people with a special operations forces background on Kessler´s staff, most of them employed through private security contractor companies. Judging from what happened on the Aqueronte, those folks aren’t there as part of some vanity security detail.

Lacoste wasn’t willing to come out and outright confirm that J.R. Kessler was operating a vigilante organization aimed at supernatural threats, but from what Lacoste said before they boarded the Aqueronte and what Garza saw herself, it sure seems to be the inescapable conclusion. As a cop, Garza should be planning to arrest everyone aboard that superyacht. More realistically, she should be bringing what she knows to the attention of higher authorities, who’d take the responsibility off her hands. ‘And then what?’

Even if Garza could somehow get federal administrators who spent their time in air-conditioned offices to believe her, it wouldn’t do anyone any good. It might cost her the job, as the boarding of the Aqueronte would certainly be scrutinized with a gimlet eye, and it would foul up a lot of people who seemed to be genuinely trying to help people, because the government couldn’t or wouldn’t.

Ultimately, it came down to whether she believed that Lacoste and the people he worked with were delusional psychopaths or not. Because if they weren’t delusional, vigilantism didn’t seem totally crazy, at least while authorities weren’t willing to accept the threat. Thinking back over her career in law enforcement, Garza remembered too many cases where she’d had doubts that there was a natural explanation to be quick to condemn the idea that there was something massively wrong with modern society.

A drunk homicide cop from Houston once told her that there were cases where every murder police was either lying to themselves or lying on the written reports. Maybe they’d always been there, maybe they were recent, but there certainly seemed to be a lot more of them these days.

Presenting her badge to a mustachioed guard at the gangway, Garza introduced herself and said she was there to see Lucien Lacoste. With impeccable courtesy, the aristocratic man introduced himself as Guillaume Armant, Penemue’s head of security, and asked her, in a thick French accent, to wait while her appointment was confirmed. Garza considered pushing it, but suspected that even with a warrant, Armant wouldn’t let her in without confirmation from his superiors. He had the stubborn look of a consummate security professional, as well as representing, by proxy, enough money and influence to make any legal consequences extremely hard to enforce.

Fortunately, Lacoste didn’t take long to confirm that she was supposed to be there. Even then, she is accompanied by a tall, handsome blond man wearing full tactical gear. Captain Winding was a Recon Marine and had been in command of the military contractors who’d reinforced them at the Aqueronte the night before and must have spent the entire night answering questions about his presence there. Lack of sleep sure didn’t show in his fresh-faced countenance, though, even though he must be at least Garza’s age.

“How are you holding up, Marshal?”
“[Fornicating] peachy, that’s how,” Garza snarls at him. “I just love lying to federal investigators and my [defecating] bosses. It’s the entire [fornicating] reason I joined the Marshals Service.”

Apologetically, “Hey, if you can come up with a plan to make the federal government acknowledge the threat and do something effective to help those who need it, I’ll back you up without reservation, no matter what happens to me afterwards. Until then, this is the best we can do. It might be illegal, dishonest, crazy, whatever; but we’re still serving and protecting, right?”

With a fierce scowl, Garza prepares to dispute that statement with some choice words, but her reflexive combative instinct is overruled by the fact that all in all, she probably agrees with that pernicious reasoning more than she disagrees. So she confines herself to saying, “Look, plenty of bad things can be justified that way too. Not to mention that it would be our asses doing hard time and while I’d rule any bitch-ass women’s prison I got sent to, your ass is entirely too pretty for Leavenworth.”

Flashing an infuriating laid-back grin, Winding answers, “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll take it under advisement. In the meantime, there are forty-two girls who lived because of what we did.”

Looking grim, Garza replies, “It was touch and go for three of them, all night, but yeah, I think they’ll pull through. I don’t know what kind of life they can have, though. Rape and human trafficking are [fornicating] evil enough, but how do you recover from something like that?”
Winding shakes his head sadly. “I don’t know, dude. I guess we hope they blocked out the worst and that they get good counseling.”

Placing her hand on the tall man’s shoulder, Garza stops him to glare into his eyes. “You’ve got trouble remembering some parts too?”
Shrugging, Winding says, “It’s soft focus, kinda. Figure it’s a coping mechanism or something.” He touches a silver amulet around his neck. “Thank the big dude up there.”

As they reach their destination down in the hold, they meet five people coming out of the library with a luggage cart. Moving to the side of the hallway to let them pass, Garza notices that one of them, a woman being carried by a handsome young guy with long dark hair, is wearing her Juicy Couture tracksuit. Looking closer, she’s shocked to discover that it’s not a woman at all. It seems to be a small pig, drooling happily in a happy dream state.

Shaking her head, Garza enters the library and sees Lucien Lacoste joking around with his friend, Teddy Smith, who is cleaning a workstation spattered with paint. At the sight of the massive, muscular Lacoste, her stomach does a barrel roll, but she stifles her giddiness to greet him with her best scowl and hands on her hips. “Y’all better have a real good explanation why there’s a pig in a wig wearing my clothes!”

[Icelander]

Lacoste and Smith look at each other, then at the bespectacled, geeky-looking African-American gentleman in the room. Dr. Lapointe, Garza remembers, the Penemue’s librarian, and evidently, also a gatekeeper for various esoteric knowledge aboard. Dr. Lapointe fetches a fluffy robe from a table and hands it to Smith. “Pardon us, ma’am, I would be infinitely obliged if you could perhaps allow us to finish up here first. Mr. Smith, if you would please take our other guest to her room?”

Belatedly, Garza notices that the suspect/witness in the case, the alleged Gwen Delvano, is also present in the room, wearing nothing but bandages, a new tattoo on her back and a far-too-small towel around her waist. Annoyingly, Delvano looks like a topless runway model with a stylish medical theme going on rather than someone who’s been shot and severely burnt in the last few days.

Attentively and gently, Teddy Smith puts the robe around Delvano, helping her put the arms into the sleeves as he would a child. Without prodding, she ties the robe around her midsection and then takes Smith’s hand, allowing him to lead her away. Smith waves at Garza as he leaves, mouthing, “Nice to see you, Marshal.”

As soon as the doors close, Garza glares at Dr. Lapointe and Lacoste. “Pig. Wig. My Juicy Couture tracksuit. Now!”
In a gentle voice, Dr. Lapointe says, “I understand that Mr. Lacoste chose to confide in you about certain things. I am sure he had his reasons, but you should be aware that there are dangers attached to knowledge.”

Garza clenches her fists and strikes a belligerent pose. “Sir, if I don’t get some answers about what the actual living [fornication] is going on, I swear to God I’m not going to be the only one in danger! Are you trying to tell me that it’s hazardous for me to know why an actual mother[fornicating] hog-beast is wearing my clothes?”

“Strictly speaking, it’s a gilt or a porker,” Dr. Lapointe says pedantically. “I do quite take your meaning, ma’am, but by extension, I suppose I am saying that. That is, there are dangers inherent in any occult knowledge.”

Before Garza can explode with anger, Lacoste interjects, “It’s sympathetic magic, Natalie. The Law of Similarity and the Law of Contagion. ‘Like affects Like’ and ‘Once Whole, Always Whole’.”
“Uh, mister, I know you didn’t just liken me to the pig!”

His huge hands held up to ward off her anger, Lacoste hastens to explain, “No, no, no!” Looking apologetic, he continues, “It’s not your likeness we wanted. You lent your clothes to Ms. Delvano, right, when she left the hospital, so some of her spiritual essence, her aura, I guess we could call it, lingered in the clothes. If we’re going to hide her from the people who are looking for her, we’ve got to prevent them from using divination to look for her. That means severing any and all spiritual or sympathetic connections that could be useful to someone dowsing or scrying.”

Garza sighs, glares again at Lacoste for good measure and then starts pacing the floor. “Okay, buddy, so even if we assume I buy your whole paranormal romance premise lock-stock-and-barrel, that only explains taking my tracksuit off the wit before we move her again. It doesn’t even begin to explain the [fornicating] pig in the [fornicating] wig.”

“Ah,” says Dr. Lapointe in a didactic tone of voice. “Perhaps I can help with that. Magical energy, much as any other energy, is conserved. There do exist methods for what might be termed, from our frame of reference, the destruction of magical properties, but these all invoke powerful and unpredictable forces. The path of least resistance, less risky and more reliable, is to simply redirect any energy into a different and more suitable form for our purposes. For example, move it from one place to another. Or, in this case, from one being to another. Metaphysically, through a quite ingenious ritual and the invaluable assistance of the artistic hands of Mr. Smith, the gilt has taken on the esoteric attributes of the erstwhile Gwen Delvano, at least for the purposes of any divinatory rituals in the near future.”

Garza whistles sarcastically. “[Fornicate] me sideways and call me Susan, but that’s a lot of ten-dollar words for a plain enough thing. The goddamn pig is a decoy.”
Grinning like a loon, Lacoste adds, “Get this, babe. We’re sending a team of badass tactical operators to take the pig on a road trip. I’m talking like real ‘Neptune Spear’ mother[fornicators], operating tactically with all those wonderful toys, some of the scariest and toughest sons of bitches in the world, all that highly trained elite [faeces]. Taking a road trip and having awesome adventures. With a pig. In a wig.”

No matter how hard she tries to maintain her severe expression, Garza finds her mouth irresistibly drawn into a matching grin. “Okay, so this little piggy draws the creepy cultists on a wild pig chase somewhere and if they catch up, they’ll be sorry they did. Meanwhile, we take the real wit to this undisclosed safe house of yours and sit on her until we figure the cultists are all in custody?”

“Well, that's the gist. If they see anything nosing around them we can take to the task force, we'll try to send a federal tactical team to take down any cult assets involved." He grins. "You’re real smart,” Lacoste notes. “You oughta be a cop or something.”
“Oh, yeah,” Garza replies, rolling her eyes. “So should you, babe. A real one. Did you talk to Sheriff Trochesset?”

With a shrug, Lacoste says, “Yeah, I’m full-time with the Galveston County Sheriff’s Office for the duration of the investigation. Rank of Lieutenant in CID / Major Crimes. I’m assigned to the new special task force, whatever it ends up being called, as lead investigator for GCSO.”
Whistling, “Whooee! What the [fornication] do you have on the Sheriff, anyway?”
“Nothing, I swear,” Lacoste says. “He just really wants me to come work there on a permanent basis, I guess. Must have noticed that I have the pecs of a natural born leader.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” replies Garza doubtfully. “Are you still federally deputized to the Marshals Service through the Gulf Coast Violent Offenders and Fugitive Task Force?”
Massive shoulders flex as Lacoste stretches himself. “Until somebody tells me I ain’t.”

“Then get your fine deputized ass into a presentable suit for a protection detail,” Garza orders with relish. “While Spanky Ham and the Baby SEALs take a road trip, you’re going to teach me how in the ever-loving-ass[fornication] I protect a witness from hoodoo cultists, heebie-jeebies and the [fornicating] forces of Hell. Wait, [faeces], are there actually demons from Hell involved?”
“Don’t you know, darling?” says Lacoste grinning, “Hell is empty. And all the devils are here.”

Garza shudders as she remembers the horrors of the Aqueronte. The too fast, unnatural movements of the shadowy man-shaped monsters aboard. The screaming, crying girls, packed tightly into cargo containers smelling like blood, death and faeces. That awful presence in her head, like a bottomless well of hungry cruelty regarding her with amused anticipation. “Don’t even [fornicating] joke about that. That’s altogether too mother[fornicating] plausible.”

“Gotta laugh, cher,” says Lacoste seriously. “Too scary otherwise. Still, there’s a silver lining.”
“To Hell on Earth?”
“If there’s a Hell, darling,” Lacoste says, “there’s Someone on our side as well.”

[johndallman]

Originally Posted by Icelander

“Pig. Wig. My Juicy Couture tracksuit. Now!”

Well, Teddy Smith's refusal to use a chicken is making sense now. If you dress a chicken in that tracksuit, it will (a) look very 2002 and (b) probably suffocate.